Modern Warfare: Nemesis
by LegioPraetor12
Summary: Four years after the death of Vladimir Makarov John Price is commanding officer of the newly reinstated TF 141. When the Ultranationalists reemerge with an unlikely ally on their side, Price sends his two best operators, Capt Sean Keller and Lt Elizabeth Allard to eliminate the threat. And a friend long thought dead returns to help fight the greatest threat the world has ever known
1. Day 1: Another day at the Office

_**One thing that bothered me about MW3 was that no one came looking for Price or Soap for killing General Shepherd. So I decided to write a story that takes place after the events of MW3 and go from there. I hated that Yuri had to die, he was definitely my favorite as well one of the richest in backstory and perspective. So I made some OCs to go along with what I think is a pretty solid story line so far. It is still being written but would appreciate some feedback on what I have so far. Its quick and action packed, in the true style of Modern Warfare._

* * *

_Day 1- "Another Day at the Office"_

_Hereford, England_

_1730 Hours_

Lieutenant Liz Allard readied her MP5SD for breach, keeping her breathing steady. In front of her, Sergeant Andy Bancroft finished prepping the charge on the door frame. He gave the thumbs up when he was done and took his position. As team leader, she was to be the first one in the room. She had been taught to lead from the front, always.

Bancroft flipped the detonator, counted to five and hit the trigger. The door exploded inward in a cloud of fire and wood splinters. Her weapon tight in her shoulder she moved into the room, firing quick double-taps into the tangos. Behind Allard, her team fanned out and engaged the remaining hostiles with accurate fire. They moved further into the house, engaging several more tangos that had survived the initial breach.

Coming to a corner, she prepped and threw a flash bang down the hall, moving the second after it detonated. A hostile was leaned against the door frame, stunned by the explosion. She fired two shots to his chest before pulling her sidearm, a Sig 9mm in a firm high grip and moving into the room where the hostage was. Two hostiles with Uzis were on either side of the hostage. She double tapped one while Bancroft shot the other twice in the side of the head with his MP5SD. All tangos were down, and the hostage was secured.

"Clear!" she reported.

"Clear!" came the replies of her team throughout the house. Allard checked her watch. One minute and thirty-five seconds, a new squadron record. A lone clapping came from above her.

"Not bad, Allard but its not hard to improve on garbage." His voice was gruff and unrefined. "That's it for today. Refit and kit up same time tomorrow." Major John Price stubbed out his cigar and left the observation tower, heading for the kill house.

Liz Allard was one of the only females that had successfully passed SAS selection and assessment. When Price had awarded her with her own, Allard considered it her greatest honor and she did everything to prove that it was well deserved. He trained her hard and constantly and the results were showing brightly in the new team. Pulling off her black balaclava, her auburn hair spilled out along with her pony tail holder. While she was a soldier and an officer, Liz was an operator and not expected to follow standard army grooming standards. Her hair was kept long because she could be at any time expected to look and act like a civilian.

"Damn good job, Allard" Bancroft clapped a hand on her shoulder harness. They wore the standard black fatigues and LBE favored by the Regiment.

"Thanks, Bancroft. Think we impressed the old man some didn't we?" she flashed a brilliant smile. Originally Allard had studied modeling and had the body and looks for it, but opted for an army commission instead. Absolutely gorgeous to say the least, it was also a disarming trait because many men didn't take her seriously upon meeting her. And she had proven them wrong every time.

"No doubt. We damn near beat his old record back when he ran ops and the only other one who came close to beating his was Soap MacTavish." He spoke the name with solemn reverence. Another legend in the SAS, him and Price had been good friends and teammates before and during the War. He had died in Price's arms in Prague after failing to assassinate Vladimir Makarov. His name amongst many others, were on the wall beneath the Clock tower.

"Then we best keep it up, don't you think? Well change out and knock off for the evening. Be at the armory by 0700." she told him.

"Right. Have a good one." Bancroft headed off with the rest of the team, jawing and pointing out each other's shortcomings. They were a solid team, but more than that; they were her team.


	2. Day 1: New Enemies, Old Hate

_Day 1- "New Enemies, Old Hate"_

_Warsaw, Poland_

_Hotel Spassky_

_1000 Hours_

The bodyguards that exited the armored limo were all former Russian Special Forces and paratroopers. Beneath their jackets were Uzis along with flak vests and communication gear, true professional mercenaries. The cold of Poland was nothing compared to their homeland and they hid their discomfort of having to be under staunch professionalism and practiced movements. They fanned out in a security cordon to secure the street and building. Their limo was the last to arrive as all the others were already upstairs.

The lead mercenary touched his earpiece.

"Area secured. Escorting principal now." His Russian was clipped and even. His men opened the limo door to allow a well dressed Russian in his mid twenties to step out onto the sidewalk. A custom tailored suit framed his athletic build, a blood red scarf hung about his neck and a pair of $1200 Brunos crunched the fallen snow beneath his feet. His hair was jet black and decidedly unkempt but his most noticeable feature were his eyes; one blue and one brown. It was a hereditary trait passed down through his family on his father's side called heterochromia iridum.

His name was Sergei Makarov, son of the late Vladimir. Heading past his bodyguards, he headed into the hotel with determination in his step. Falling in next to him, his men escorted him up the elevator to the penthouse conference room where his meeting was to be taking place. Outside the penthouse doors, two more armed men waited for Makarov's arrival. Wordlessly, they opened the door to the penthouse and in stepped Makarov, leaving his men at the door. Walking the expense of the rooms, Makarov reached the conference room and entered. Around a large circular table was a collection of men in expensive suits and officers in the uniforms of the Russian Federation. The men here were the remainder of the Ultranationalist Party leadership, ousted after President Boris Vorshevsky signed the Maclean Accord that ended World War III. Each still had considerable influence in the military and political arena, even after their expulsion from Russia. It was this reason that the heir to the Ultranationalist movement, Sergei Makarov had called them from their countries of exile.

"Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Your continued patronage and support over the years to our cause have been most generous and fortuitous. I am pleased to announce that we are ready to begin." His hands were behind his back as he slowly walked around the room, amidst the aroma of fine cigars and expensive vodka.

"When it was on the verge of total victory against the West, it surrendered everything. A peace was reached between the puppet Vorshevsky and the Imperialist America. Our soldiers returned home to a foreign land, unappreciative of sacrifice and duty. True patriots were arrested, executed or thrown into exile, never to return home. My father did what was necessary to bring about a new Russia, free of the yoke that now grips it, and denies us what is rightfully ours. And it was a cause he gave his life for, as did every soldier of Mother Russia.

"But we betrayed by our own countrymen. So-called "Loyalists", allied with the West fought us at every turn, killing fellow Russians at will. It is this betrayal that fuels our desire for revenge. It is our desire for revenge, burning in our hardened hearts that has brought us to this historic day. Even now, our vengeance has already taken its first step to fulfillment." Taking the small TV remote from the conference table, Sergei hit the power to turn the screen on.

The images were Russia, the Kremlin. Armed troops were escorting the Premier and his cabinet into the streets. Murmurs came from the men around the table, cigars were stubbed out and vodka was downed in single swallows.

"These men denied a victory we had come within a hair's breadth of achieving. Now they will pay the price and a man capable of delivering that final victory will step in." Malice and hatred seethed in his voice, yet a steel determination resonated from his stature. As the men helplessly watched the screen, the soldiers opened fire on President Vorshevsky and his cabinet, riddling their now lifeless bodies with an endless barrage of lead.

"Ramzan Zakhaev, the last of that great family will lead our cause in the following days. Bold, patriotic and determined like his grandfather and father before him, Russia will rise once more. "Hitting the remote again, it showed an image of a rough looking man, in an ill-fitting suit before a podium that was flanked by the Ultranationalists banners. He bore a strong resemblance to the now dead and revered Imran Zakhaev, but a full head of black hair and beard to match. The caption underneath read " A Hero's Heir to lead Russia."

"We here at this table have something much greater to achieve, beyond politics or false treaties. There are allies of ours in the West that will support our mission, provide us with manpower and the intelligence necessary to carry it out. Rest assured my friends, the Kremlin will follow suit with our new leader at the helm and righteous justice will be ours." Flipping the remote once more, he brought up a screen with several photographs. One was the face of Major John Price of the SAS, the other was a man believed to have been killed four years ago. Yuri Danilovich Volkov, former Spetsnaz and Ultranationalist hero.

"These are our targets. Even now, our men are nearing closer to their objectives. Once they are dead, Russian will begin anew, a nation reborn from the ashes. And it will be drenched in the blood of our enemies.


	3. Day 2: Free Bird

_Day 2- "Free Bird"_

_Muhaisnah, United Arab Emirates_

_1915 Hours_

Middle Eastern prisons were the filthiest places on earth, and the most lawless. Guards were merely criminals in uniforms and the inmates were the true bosses. Within the high security walls, it was a criminal empire unto itself, its streets the walkways and the territories marked by cell blocks and barred doors.

The prisoner in Cell Block D, cell 19 passed the days by playing wall-ball, reading the various books he had compiled in under his rack and staying in fighting shape. His multitude of tattoos kept the majority of inmates at bay, as they were a symbol of his lethality amongst them.

He was just a number to the system, Prisoner 943. To the inmates, he was The Russian. And to himself, he was Yuri. Former Spetsnaz commando and leading member of the Ultranationalist Movement in Russia, he had helped kill Vladimir Makarov four years ago on the roof the Dubai Hotel. However, he had taken a bullet to the neck in the process and lost a large amount of blood before being rushed to a hospital by the local security forces and was believed to have died. He had been languishing in this prison ever since with no identification whatsoever, only that he had killed a large number of security and Ultranationalist bodyguards throughout the hotel.

But he had survived, and his friends knew nothing about it. He was a fugitive in Russia, a disavowed operator in the West and a mass murderer in Dubai. He had figured that Price believed him dead as well and he held no grudge against him. After all, he had seen Yuri impaled on a piece of rebar and taking a bullet from Makarov. Yuri was resigned to his fate but at least Makarov was dead.

Several guards walked by, stopping at his cell. One gestured down the catwalk and the door slid open.

"943, on your feet. You have a visitor." The guard said to him in Arabic.

"Who is it?" he replied back. His time in prison had allowed him to pick up a basic understanding of the language.

"Not my problem, fucker. Get up!" Grabbing his baton, he cracked Yuri across his shoulder, which he responded to promptly. Out on the catwalk, the inmates stole looks and shouted at him as they walked by.

"Fuck you, Russian!"

"Son of a pig eating whore!" An inmate spat a nasty wad from his cell. The guards opened his door and viciously beat him bloody with their batons. Yuri continued down the catwalk towards the inmate visiting area, his mind contemplating who this visitor could be.

The visiting area was fairly spacious and not all that bristling with visitors. Few guards remained in the area and a large viewing window where the block officer sat, surrounded by more prison guards. At a table in the far corner of the room, a lone man in a black jacket and trousers. He was Russian, from the shape of his hooked nose and Slavic features. He was also a killer, for Yuri had known and seen that hardened look many times over. As soon as the Russian saw Yuri, he straightened up and flashed a grin. Steeling himself for whatever was coming, Yuri wordlessly walked to the table and sat down.

"Yuri Volkov?" While Yuri was wary of this man, it was oddly comforting to hear his native language once again. Ever so slightly, the Russian kept one hand hidden. At that moment, Yuri knew.

"He's dead. Don't you know?" Yuri's tone was steely and cold.

"He is now. Sergei Makarov sends his regards." The killer reached inside his jacket and quickly drew a suppressed MP-446 "Viking" from a shoulder rig. Yuri grabbed the weapon with one hand and with the other smashed his head into the table just as the doors exploded inward. Dragging the unconscious assassin to the floor with his pistol at the ready, three men in full black tactical gear stormed in spraying death with suppressed HK G36KVs. They cut down guard and inmate alike, their bodies blossoming large red holes at they went down.

Yuri was still lying on the floor as he brought up his Viking to bear. He fired multiple times at the upper chest of the first commando one finally catching him in the head. His comrade saw the shooter and began moving to circle Yuri but was thrown backwards as Yuri fired several shots at him, penetrating his goggles and helmet. The third commando opened fire at him, who had pulled the now dead assassin up in front of him as a shield. A long burst of 5.56mm tore into the back of the assassin, only stopping to reload a fresh magazine. Yuri took advantage of the pause and fired a single .40 caliber round into his face, dropping him instantly. He ran over to the dead commando and relieved him of his vest, radio, weapons and ammunition, sliding a fresh magazine into both his pistol and G36KV. As he rummaged through the various pockets on his jacket, Yuri pulled a Velcro tab on the sleeve to reveal the distinct insignia of Spetsnaz.

"Fucking Makarov and his dogs." He murmured to himself as he found a pack of Sobranie Black cigarettes and a lighter. Pulling one out, he light one and savored the smoky harsh flavor of the cigarette. After several long drags, he stubbed it out and readied his weapon to move against the remaining commandos he knew were lurking about.

As he moved through the outer ring of the prison, he heard several explosions and even more gunfire. Already, he had figured that the commandos had come for him but were killing anyone in their sights to leave no witnesses behind. Up ahead, more Russians were kicking in office doors and killing the inhabitants. Moving towards them, Yuri lit the darkened hallway up as he fired a long burst at them. One commando was thrown the ground as rounds impacted his head and chest as another clutched his neck in gurgling agony. The last soldier went into a crouch and returned fire, the rounds snapping over Yuri's head and punching holes in the wall next to him. Ducking behind an overturned desk, Yuri slapped a full magazine into his weapon and waited for the commando to do the same. Hearing the sound of an empty magazine hitting the deck, he rolled out and began firing at the soldier. His body jerked at the many impacts then dropped back to the floor. Continuing down the hall and checking his corners, he grabbed several more magazines from the dead commandos.

Coming to the processing area of the prison, he paused. Sprawled out with multiple bloody holes in them were a multitude of guards. The survivors were lined up and on their knees under the watchful eyes of multiple black-clad commandos. Their commander was unmasked and had his hand up to his ear.

"His cell was empty? Did you find any trace of him?" he barked. The soldier on the other end was giving his report.

"He killed three already? We knew he wouldn't go without a fight. Did you eliminate all hostiles in the cell block?" a satisfied look came over his face as he heard the answer.

"Good. Sweep forward through the visiting area and we will push him towards us. Then he will be trapped and we will kill him, then get the fuck out of this black-ass shithole." Grabbing a nearby soldier, he pointed to the entrance was Yuri had been unknowingly been hiding.

"Take your men and link up with Grigori. He is in the visitor center and awaiting your arrival. Our target is somewhere between here and Grigori, trap him and kill him. Move." The commando nodded and motioned for several soldiers to follow him. Yuri unhooked a frag grenade from his vest, pulled the pin and rolled it towards the approaching team. The leader tried to save his men but it exploded amongst them, blowing off limbs and shredding them to death. Yuri advanced into the momentary chaos and began firing. He took the commander down with a short burst and unloaded his magazine at multiple commandos that were seeking cover. Jumping through an office window, Yuri sought cover from the firestorm of lead. He heard voices shouting commands and swears directed at him. Blindfiring over the office wall, he forced the teams backwards.

A grenade landed in front of Yuri, who threw it back in time for it to explode in mid-air. The commandos were caught under the explosion as they tried to advance towards him. Screams of pain and agony were heard as Yuri popped up and cut down several more commandos that were trying to assist their wounded comrades. Sensing their hesitation at their continued assault, Yuri vaulted over the wall and sprinted for the main door.

Parked outside were several ATVs and armored Jeeps. From the looks of them, they had been loaded onto inflatable Zodiacs from a larger vessel off shore and landed on the nearby beaches. He ran towards one of the jeeps and climbed into one. The driver had been careless enough to leave the keys in the ignition and started it up. Throwing it into drive and hitting the gas, Yuri burned rubber and sped off down through the small parking lot, where he was surprised by two waiting Jeeps with its occupants aiming their weapons at him. In the passenger seat was an MP7A1 submachine gun, a small but highly effective weapon, Yuri grabbed it and stuck it out the window and unloaded its magazine. Rounds tore through the fiberglass body and punched into the windows. Several rounds caught a commando, spinning him into the hood. Bracing himself for impact, he smashed the front of one jeep sending it spinning away from him.

Speeding out onto the streets, Yuri was headed for the beach landing zone where he planned on making his way off shore to their waiting vessel. He knew how the Ultranationalists operated and would use that to this advantage. The vessel would be a medium freighter with a hold large enough for the assault team and its vehicles. It was highly likely the crew would be merchant sailors, not die hard supporters of the cause. From there, he would use the ships radio to contact an old friend.


	4. Day 2: Home Sweet Home

_Day 2- Home Sweet Home_

_Hereford, England_

_2200 Hours_

Major John Price preferred the officer housing on base. It was comfortable and convenient in case he needed to gear up for an operation. Lightly decorated with the necessities along with a few personal touches, it was his home. In his living room, he kept a globe that was actually a hidden bar. John poured himself a finger of brandy and sat down in his recliner, his custom M1911 on the table next to him. He liked the feel of the 1911 and had acquired another one after the events in Prague.

He was finally alone and he preferred it that way. Through his many years of service, the one thing about being a survivor was that you survived, no matter who fell around who or how many. His mind drifted back to Prague, four years ago. Soap was bleeding badly through his jacket and Price was yelling at him to hang on. Yuri had watched helplessly as the one man who Price had trusted and called his friend, managed his final words.

"Makarov…knows…Yuri." And he died right after that. Price had screamed and called his name. Tears in his eyes, he had placed his M1911 across Soap's chest.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

Price snapped back to reality, his tumbler about to slip from his hand. He downed the fiery smoky liquor in one gulp and went to pour himself another as he recounted the last few years to keep his mind occupied.

Upon killing Makarov in Dubai, Price had spent only a brief time in the hands of the UAE security forces. With the reinstatement of Task Force 141, he was officially protected by the British government and was released back to the UK. For his role in finally ending the terrorist threat of Makarov and the Inner Circle, Price was awarded the Victoria Cross as well a promotion to Major. He was also moved from operational status to his current post as commanding officer of the SAS training regiment as well as executive officer of Task Force 141. Price recalled the young Liz Allard and how she had impressed him in both ability and resourcefulness over the last few months. She had taken everything the Regiment and Price could throw at her, and she had come away with flying colors.

Allard had come to Price by way of the Intelligence Corps, which she had been serving with in Afghanistan. The mission she was on had gone wrong, her sergeant and source had been ambushed and brutally murdered. She survived 5 days in the mountains on her own with Taliban fighters on her heels and along the way had laid multiple traps and ambushes for them. An SAS team had finally recovered her, with only a pistol and half a bottle of water in her possession.

Price had requested an interview with her once she returned to Kandahar and began the arduous process of recruitment into not only the SAS but eventually TF 141. She had taken the life of an operator like a duck in water. Eventually she was slated to be a leading member of the task force but for now, she was designated Bravo Team. His primary field commander for the 141 was an SAS Captain named Sean Keller. He had known Keller back during the days of Imran Zakhaev, and he was a solid operator and good man to have your back. Along with Soap and Color Sergeant Gaz, Keller had led his team to reclaim the nuclear missiles silos that Zakhaev had seized. To add to his proven operational record, Keller had been with the 141 since its inception and had accompanied the unit on most of its missions against Makarov and the ensuing Ultranationalist threat.

This time Price sipped at this brandy and savored the taste, rather than down it like a shot. Age and time was showing its wear on him, his distinct beard now almost white and more wrinkles were showing around his green eyes. But he knew he could outshoot and outfight even his best operators, a feat he weekly accomplished. He would never contemplate retirement, but the end of the last war had seriously brought that thought to mind. While Price would give everything he had to next generation of warriors, he had become tired of it all.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Slowly putting the sifter down on the table, Price went for his .45 on his table. Outside his house, he could have sworn he heard the sound of an engine being turned off and doors opening. The movements were quiet and practiced, not wishing to attract his unnecessary attention. Gripping his 1911 firmly and moving towards his living room window, Price ever so slightly pulled back the curtains. A large black SUV was in the street in front of his house, its occupants in full tactical gear and suppressed weapons. Moving using hands signals, the six men moved towards his home and fanned out to encircle the house. _Professionals,_ he thought _and well armed too. _There was an awful familiarity about these men, their gear and the way they moved like predators circling their prey.

He stepped back from his window and quietly made his way to his bedroom and reached under his bed for his Benelli M4 Super 90. Grabbing the box of shells and loading them swiftly, Price brought it up to his shoulder and waited. Sure enough, one of the commandos entered his line of sight outside his window.

"Good evening" he said and fired. The roar of the shotgun boomed through the house and exploded the window pane and into the head and chest of the commando. He was thrown backwards with his face a bloody face, dead before he hit the ground. Jumping through the broken window, and peering down his Benelli he fired again this time taking another soldier in the chest and legs, dropping him.

"Cutter, status!" came a shout from around the corner. _Americans, _he realized_. _Before he could finish a thought, the cough of a suppressed weapon being fired caught his attention. Rolling into the hedge for cover, the rounds followed his movements tearing away branch and bush.

"Target is on the move, two men down. Pursuing at will." He heard a voice say and the sound of a weapon being reloaded. From his concealed positions, Price low crawled through the verge hoping to get around his pursuers.

"Have Ramirez and Cates load our dead onto the vics. We can't have any trace we were here. Price will not be allowed to escape, otherwise this op is blown. Understood?"

"Roger, sir. I'll radio Oxide and push another team to us, have them cordon off the area."

"Negative, too much attention will blow us all. Pursue aggressively and without hesitation. He must die. Move out." The commandos split and helped move the corpses of their men, while the others moved towards the darkened hedge. From the position of his belly, Price opened fire and caught the approaching commandos full in the chest. Pressing the advantage, he stood up to fire the last shell but was instead met with a force that wrenched the shotgun from his hands and punched him square in his face.

Seeking to break his death grip, Price smashed his fist on the commandos forearm and drove a hand into his unprotected throat. Stepping into Price's attack, the operative locked his arm and hip tossed him hard to the ground. Coming back from the momentary stun, he kicked at his assailants' knee but missed. Attempting to get up, Price had the wind knocked out of him by a hard fist to his solar plexus. The commando then drew a SOG knife from his vest and stabbed at him with full force. While still reeling from the hit, Price still managed to roll away and kick his attacker in the side of the head and leap towards him. Grabbing his knife with both hands, Price slowly drove the knife back towards the soldiers chest as the futilely attempted to break the hold. The knife went easily into the neck with a soft gurgle and the life seeped from his eyes. Price dropped him to the ground, trying to regain his breath.

Just then, another SUV pulled up to his house. He immediately drew his 1911 and aimed it at the exiting occupants. He was just about to squeeze the trigger and quickly recanted.

"Ho! Friendlies!" came the harsh Sheffield accent of Sean Keller. He sprinted towards price wearing a black sweater, camouflage trousers and vest. His M4 at the alert, he began to check Price for wounds.

"I'm fine, mate. Look,this is some bad shit here. These guys were Yanks."

"Americans? Why the hell would Americans hit you, on our turf?" Liz Allard had also joined him, wearing similar attire.

"I'll show you." Price replied gruffly and took them over to one of the dead commandos. Rolling him over and showing them a shoulder patch on their left arm. It was a Spade patch with the words "UMBRA CERTVAE".

"I don't understand, who are these guys?" Allard asked, puzzled.

"They're called Shadow Company. They were General Shepherd's private army in Afghanistan and when he killed Ghost and Roach in Georgia. Guessing they want payback for Soap and I taking him out."

Keller was inspecting the body of another commando, pulling off the spade tab and keeping it.

"This is some pretty heavy stuff, Price. Why did Shepherd need his own personal guys? He had the whole bloody US military behind him."

"No soldier in their right minds would have gone along with Shepherds plan and its insane endgame. He needed men who no longer existed, disavowed operators who would do the worst of his dirty work like kill our allies and start the next World War. That's where Shadow Company came in. We though most of them if not all of them were taken out in Afghanistan or just disappeared when Shepherd died. Seems they were just waiting till the world forgot about the last few years."

"That's not all, Price. We received a call through our secure intel network from callsign Red Hammer for Black Viking. That was your op name, right?" asked Liz. Prices stiffened at the name Red Hammer._ Yuri._

"How the hell is he alive? I saw him take a bullet to the head!" he nearly shouted at Keller.

"Who is Red Hammer? What does he know?" Keller glared at Price.

"Its Yuri, the Russian who helped us take down Makarov. I saw him shot by the bastard, just before I finished him off. Where is he now?" Price began heading for the Shadow Company SUV.

"He was in prison just outside Dubai but escaped after an attack on the prison. Said it was the Ultranationalists. Right now, he is in Haifa awaiting extraction. We going to get him?

"Bet your arse we are. We take care of our friends." Price climbed into the SUV and opened up the onboard laptop to begin combing through it. It detailed the assault plan and how they were going to cover up Price's death as an accident, several pages of intel detailing past operations involving Shadow Company as well a roster of personnel involved in this operation. Several more documents detailed the recent coup by the resurgent Ultranationalist Party.

"Get all this back to base, and keep this attack quiet. Get Walker over here with his team and clean this mess up. Looks like we're going to war again, boys and girls."


	5. Day 3: Nothing Good Lasts Forever

_Day 3- "Nothing Good Lasts Forever"_

_Haifa, Israel_

_October 1 0720 Hours_

Yuri had scarcely slept the last two nights, never knowing when they would be coming. His small but easily escapable apartment had allowed him to clean himself up after Dubai, shaving off completely the thick beard he had acquired in prison and shoring his hair down to a reasonable length. In a duffle bag he had stolen from the Spetsnaz team Yuri kept a vest fully loaded with magazines and grenades, an HK G36KV with a red dot sight and spare clips for his MP-443. The radio he had taken was off most of the time because he knew it could be used to locate his position.

Lighting up a cigarette, he went back to waiting. When he contacted the British, they confirmed his identity with Price who had promised him an extraction. He went around the Israeli government, knowing they would likely imprison him once extracted. A team was coming for him now, protégés of Price and guaranteed to be the best. Coming from a man like Price that was all he needed. Turning the radio and grabbing the headset, he hit the mike.

"Bravo Six, this is Red Hammer. Radio check." He waited. "Bravo Six, this is Red Hammer, radio check."

"Red Hammer, Bravo Six. Good to hear you're still alive. We are inbound, 2 minutes out. Stand by for coordinates for extraction." came a crackled and rough voice.

"Roger Bravo Six. Standing by for coordinates." Yuri breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his extraction. But as soon as that though crossed his mind, it was shattered. The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters. Grabbing the radio and opening fire with his MP-446 as he dove for cover, Yuri cursed himself for being careless if only for a moment. His attackers carried SCAR-L assault rifles, wore tactical vests over khaki combat trousers and lightweight blouses, giving them the look of professionals. They fought like them too, pinning Yuri with accurate fire. He could see their boots from underneath the bed and fired, tearing up their legs and feet. They crashed to the ground an Yuri shot them each in the head. Vaulting up and grabbing his duffel bag to throw on his vest and ready his assault rifle, Yuri hit the mike on his headset.

"Bravo Six, cancel coordinates. Just meet me at the docks!" he shouted.

"Red Hammer, SitRep." Demanded Bravo Six.

"Under fire from multiple hostiles, can no longer proceed safely to exfil point. Head to the docks, and I will be there. Red Hammer out." Securing his headset, he moved out on his balcony and out into the alley. They were nearby so he proceeded with caution. It paid when a round impacted just inches above his head from a rooftop sniper. Yuri fired a burst before seeking cover and from up streets, more commandos were arriving. He needed another way out.

Priming a grenade to cover his movement, he tossed towards the approaching team. They shouted and ran as it exploded. Already over to the next block with no hostiles in sight, Yuri headed west towards the docks. He knew it was nearby and it was highly likely the enemy was waiting there as well. Though they assaulted with heavy force and little regard for casualties, they were anything but stupid. He was surprised to see most of the civilian population of the city was unperturbed at the gunfire, figuring it was their citizen soldiers hard at work. However, once he made his presence amongst the population known, it would only be a matter of time before the police or army showed up. His pursuers would not care about international incidents and would in all probability engage the Israeli forces in pursuit of him. He needed to get out, fast.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind, did he begin to take fire. Several civilians went down, hit by stray rounds. The commandos kept up their fire, advancing down the alley. Yuri fired back, taking one down as he ran into the street, heading for the docks. Round snapped overhead as the pedestrians tried to disperse but an unlucky few caught rounds to their unprotected bodies. People screamed and cried in agony, their faces sheer terror. Keeping low as he sprinted amongst the crowd, the commandos pressed into the dispersing crowd with Yuri in the sights. He was nearing the entrance to the shipyards and could find good firing points in there. Approaching the gate house, he vaulted over the barrier where the port security officer was taking his smoke break. Caught by surprise he attempted to draw his Glock 9mm but was quickly subdued and disarmed by Yuri.

"I'm not your enemy today, friend. Stay in your guardhouse and you'll live." He told the guard, who only nodded in fear. Selecting his G36 to single fire, he popped up and fired two quick shots at the approaching tangos before heading further into the shipyard.

From the door of the Black Hawk helicopter, Keller and Allard could see the port of Haifa. Several large freighters were making berth and the yard itself was teeming with activity. The helo roared towards the smaller docks, keeping a low profile above the sea.

"Looks like Yuri's not alone. You ready?" Keller gripped Allard on her shoulder harness. Each operator wore black t-shirts, olive green LBEs and Multicam trousers. Keller kept his sandy blonde hair short for operations and sported a pair of Oakley sunglasses to complete his combat gear. Allard preferred a pair of ballistic aviators, her lucky glasses. She checked her ACR fitted with a Red Dot sight with Keller racked the charging handle on his ACR with an EoTech sight. Across his back was an L129A1 Designate Marksman Rifle, for longer range engagements. Keller had extensive sniper training and liked to on top of it.

"Ready, Keller." In truth, she was quite nervous. This was not her first taste of combat but it was her first mission as a member of the 141. She expected nothing less than perfect.

"Pilot, put us down at the pier. Circle for air support and be back for pickup in five." Keller told the pilot through his throat mike.

"Roger, sir. Good luck down there."And shot him thumbs up as he brought the bird to the edge of the pier. The two operators jumped out and headed down the pier, weapons at the ready. Gunfire was heard deeper into the port, 5.56mm from the sound of it. The pair moved faster as the sounds of battle neared closer. Single shots were heard and in response several short bursts were given in response. Keller took point and led them around a mountain of shipping containers, where he peered around the corner. From here, he observed Yuri moving container to container with multiple hostiles on his six. He nodded to Allard, who readied herself. Then they stepped out and gave fire to the enemy, cutting them down quickly. Yuri gave him the thumbs up as he ran towards them.

"Yuri, glad to meet you. I'm Keller; this is Allard of the 141." He extended a gloved hand which Yuri gladly took.

"I am surprised you are a woman, Allard. Damn fine shooting." He shot a quick smile.

"I get by. How many hostiles on your six?" she inquired.

"I don't know, but if they are anything like I went up against in Dubai its a lot. Shall we go, then?" he ejected the spent magazine and slapped a new one.

"Couldn't agree more, mate. Let's move." Keller led the way with Yuri in the center and Allard bringing up the rear. "Though you might want an update on our situation. These guys here aren't the Spetsnaz who hit you in Dubai. These guys are yanks, a black ops outfit called Shadow Company. We know them to working with the Ultranationalists."

"Why? America has nothing to gain by working with those animals!" Yuri shot back.

"They don't represent our good cousins; they were a rogue outfit under General Shepherd. You know the name?"

"Of course. Supreme Commander of all US Forces during Russia's Civil war and the last one he started. Price filled me on who he was. So these fuckers want payback for his death?"

"Exactly. They already unsuccessfully tried to take out Price at his house. Don't worry, Price is fine. He's just pissed off." Before Yuri could reply, rounds began snapping around them and the trio sought cover. The commandos were here in force now, piling out of several black SUVs and Jeeps. They were well armed in greater numbers than before, and ready to launch a full assault on the three of them.

"Dust-Off 6-2, this is Bravo Seven. Request immediate extraction, large numbers of hostiles prepping to converge on position. Landing zone will be hot, over." Allard had one hand to her throat mike while the other gripped her ACR.

"Roger Bravo Seven. We can the hostiles from here, requesting permission to engage before extraction, over." Replied the helo pilot, who was doing an excellent job at keeping his bird out of sight.

"Negative, need extraction immediately Dust-Off 6-2. Head to the end of the pier and we will be there, Out." As soon as she finished her transmission, the Black Hawk roared back into sight over the hilltop, headed for the pier.

"MOVE!" Shouted Keller. The three sprinted towards the waiting helo as the commandos opened fire on them. Rounds snapped and cracked by them and kicked up the ground around them. Yuri turned and fired several bursts to keep their heads down and continued running. Allard was keeping low but still moving just as fast as her comrades. Keller turned and dropped to one knee and shot a commando twice in the chest before taking another down with a short burst. Delivering more accurate and aimed shots kept the enemy at bay and allowed them a brief pause from being shot at.

"Keller, we have to move now!" Allard yelled to him as he took down a commando with a single round. Complying with her request Keller turned to run and was suddenly thrown forward, his back feeling like a truck just hit him full one.

"Yuri, man down!" she called out as she ran towards the wounded operator, slinging her rifle and pulling her SIG P226. Kneeling over Keller, she checked for exit wounds and was relieved to see that he was hit in his back SAPI plate. With her P226 in hand, she grabbed Keller and lifted to his feet to regain himself.

"You good?! We have to move now!" Grabbing him the shoulder harness, Allard dragged Keller as he slowly got back his footing. Yuri now brought up the rear with his G36 firing at the approaching commandos, knocking several back with holes in their chests. The Black Hawk was hovering just off the end of the pier, the door gunner spooling up his Vulcan. The crew chief was the door, his hands extended for the approaching operators. As they got closer, the hum of the engine grew louder. Round began impacting the fuselage of the helo, prompting the gunner to return fire. The roar of the Vulcan was deafening, spitting out thousands of 20mm HE rounds that exploded and tore up the Shadow Company soldiers.

Allard was the first to reach the helo, with Keller right behind her. The crew chief helped haul him as she jumped in after him. Yuri was the last to go, firing his pistol as he climbed aboard. The Black Hawk veered away just as the incoming fire picked up.

"Well, that was fun." Strained Keller, fighting back the intense pain of his injury.

"Loads, but I think it was just the beginning. If there are Americans working with Makarov, this is about to get whole lot worse very soon." Yuri sighed as he leaned back against his seat.


	6. Day 3: Hail to the Chief

_Day 3- "Hail to the Chief"_

_Washington DC_

_Oct 1 1730 Hours_

The White House was finally quieting down, after the guided tours had finished and went home. Functionaries ceased to run at their behest of their bosses and Secret Service Agents conducted their shift change. Oncoming officers took their places as the off-going signed out with the duty officer and left. Evenings on duty were typically boring but still required eternal vigilance. Agent Ian Wells knew this well. While he had only been on active duty a few months, he had impressed his superiors with his tenacity and total dedication to duty. A former Army Specialist Four, he had fought in these very streets four years ago to help repel the Russian invasion as part of the 75th Ranger Regiment. Going into the Secret Service was the best decision he had ever made and was proud of that everyday, as was his wife Chloe who was expecting their first child in the coming months.

"Have a good shift, Wells. I hear the Russians are coming for you." Agent Aaron Stewart joked, who was day shift counterpart.

"Yea, yea. We kicked their asses, we'll do it again. Is Eagle Scoutstill in his office?" Eagle Scout was the codename for Robert Slater, the newly elected President of the United States. His name came from his days in the Scouts, which he used unceremoniously as part of his "True American" campaign posters.

"Yea, he'll be working late for his speech. Goddamn Congress and Senate both want a response to the Russians on the same day. You believe that shit?"

"Typical politicians, man. Well then, it should be a fairly easy shift. Have a good one." Stewart exited the corridor to heads towards the duty hut. Wells scanned the hallways and corridors in his sector, his eyes missing nothing.

"Sector 1-1 this Dogpatch, radio check." His earpiece crackled with the voice of the shift Agent in Charge.

"Dogpatch, Sector 1-1 reads you loud and clear. Walking the perimeter at this time, over." Wells replied with precision and clarity, as befitting his military training and current position.

"Roger, 1-1. Keep a sharp eye tonight. Eagle Scout will be in the Nest for most of the night. Dogpatch out." His earpiece went silent as Dogpatch signed off. Wells continued his patrol along the bright and painting filled walls. The Presidents of the past decorated the walls, seemingly watching his every move. It gave the young agent some form of odd comfort, knowing that in some way the President s were looking out for him.

His earpiece crackled to life once again. "Dogpatch, this 3-2. We have three SUVs entering the perimeter, government plates and military ID. They are reporting to be—" . There was muffle and then silence. Wells tensed up and his Ranger instincts kicked.

"3-2, Dogpatch. Say again your last, over."

Nothing. No response from the agents at the outer perimeter. Wells' hand went to his P229 on his hip and hit the thumb release. From down the hall, he saw other agents doing the same.

"1-1 and 2-1, head to Nest and secure Eagle Scout. Citadel may have a possible threat." Dogpatch ordered across the net.

"Roger, 1-1 moving to Nest." Wells responded and headed towards the Oval Office. He was soon joined by Agent Greg Wester, callsign 2-1. When they reached the Oval Office doors, the two agents took position and drew their weapons facing the hallway.

"Dogpatch, this 3-3. We have multiple hostiles inside the perimeter, wearing flak vests and carrying automatic weapons. Request immediate tactical support!" Suddenly an explosion rocked the entire building, knocking the two agents off their feet.

"Citadel is breached! Evacuate Eagle Scout-" the transmission was cut short by the staccato burst of an assault rifle. The two Agents flung the doors open and ran towards the President, taking his arms to begin moving him to the evacuation tunnel.

"What the hell is going on!? Are we under attack?!" Robert Slater demanded. He was a well groomed former Attorney General and Senator from Nevada that still retained a youthful appearance, despite the rigors of a post-War ravaged America.

"We are handling it, sir!" replied Wells as they were met by multiple agents as well a full tactical team, brandishing body armor and MP5A3 sub-machine guns.

"Are you getting my family out? Where is my family?" Slater demanded of the agents.

"It's being handled sir!" Wells replied once more. All throughout the corridors, gunfire echoed and grew ever louder. Agents gave chaotic reports over the radios amidst the fighting. The entourage moved down a long corridor that was yet untouched by the attack. Agents swept forward and checked hallways for any hostiles, sounding the clear when none were found.

"Contact rear!" shouted an Agent as he triggered his MP5, sending a barrage of 9mm rounds down the hall. The attackers responded in kind with the distinct report of an AK-12 assault rifle. The agent's body shook as the heavy 7.62mm rounds impacted and passed through his Kevlar vest. Wells and Wester covered the unarmored President as the other agents returned fire down the corridor, forcing the attackers back into cover.

"Eagle Scout is moving to the elevator, have Stagecoach ready to move!" shouted Wells into his earpiece. Stagecoach was the codename for the Presidential limousine.

"Stagecoach is ready and waiting! A full tac team is on security!" replied the agent on the other end. Wells turned and joined in the fire, as two more agents dropped to the ground. Smoke grenades were tossed towards them, laying a thick cloud of gray. Rounds still came through the haze, catching a uniformed agent in the head and another in the throat. Wester emptied his magazine and went for another when the enemy appeared through the smoke. It made a sinister sight to see; black helmets and gas masks in full body armor brandishing vicious looking assault rifles. Wells forced the President into the elevator with the last of the security team. As the door closed, he saw Wester drop to the floor with a large hole coming out of the back of his head.

The elevator hummed as it descended to the underground garage. Slamming a fresh magazine into his P229, he waited for the doors to open. Following his example, the other two agents followed suit and loaded fresh clips into their MP5s, slapping the bolt forward.

"What is happening?! How did they get past the security?!" The President was sweating and fuming at the attack. The White House was supposed to be the safest building in the world, made even more so by the War.

"They're Russians, Mr. President. Weapons, gear and I even them speaking. It's them." Wells angrily said.

"Russians? How? Why? We have been seeking peace with them since the end of the war!" Slater now looked as if he was about to cry, for all his work towards peace and reconciliation had collapsed in a matter of minutes.

"With the old Premier dead, the new government wants blood for ending the war. But that's above my pay grade Mr President." Wells managed a small smile in hopes to comfort his leader at his frailest. The elevator door opened and Wells prepared to move.

But it was too late.

Two Russians in full tactical gear awaited, AK-12s at the ready. They quickly executed the uniformed agents with double taps to the head and shot Wells in the chest, who covered the President as he fell. As he hit the ground hard, a sudden revelation hit him harder.

They were no Secret Service agents waiting in the garage with the limousine. The Russians had been waiting the whole time. But the voice on the radio was as American as him. He managed to choke back the blood that was filling up his chest cavity.

The attackers were Americans.

He watched helplessly as the two soldiers escorted the President towards the limousine. Everything seemed to blur in and out, as his breathing grew shallower. As his leader approached the car door, it opened and out stepped a well dressed man with a blood red scarf around his neck. Wells had seen all the newscast and photos of this man. How could it be Vladimir Makarov, he was dead!

"Mr President. It is honor to finally meet you." He extended a gloved hand. It was not taken as the President stood defiant.  
"Who are you? Why have your men attacked my country once more?! We wanted peace!" he shouted.

"That's the odd thing about these men, Mr. President. They are not _mine_, they're _yours. _Compliments of Lieutenant General William Shepherd, if you must know." Makarov smiled a wolfish grin

"As for me, I am Sergei Makarov and there is something that I need you to do for me." He gestured to the limousine. President Slater refused to move.

"No. You have declared war on America and her allies. We will not—" Slater was cut short as Makarov grabbed him the collar and threw him into the car. Wells, with his last few breaths attempted to raise his P229. One of the soldiers approached and drew his pistol. The last thing Wells saw was the fire erupting from its barrel, then darkness.

* * *

**Dedicated to Newmoongirl10, for her continued patronage and honesty.**


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